The Living Erik Darling
by PwettyGurl
Summary: Her neighbours knew Agnes Crumplebottom was many things- rich, studious, frugal, a brilliant cook and artist, and above all, independent, but did not see, or perhaps chose to ignore, this side which made her wake up and stand in her garden at 3 AM.


Her neighbours knew Agnes Crumplebottom was many things- rich, studious, frugal, a brilliant cook and an even better artist, and above all, independent, but did not see, or perhaps chose to ignore, this newer and more vulnerable side of her. The side that made her wake up for no reason and get an inexplicable urge to stand in the middle of her garden at three AM every morning.

Agnes stared at the grave of Erik Darling, her face impassive. She knew that every person who drowned had a hand above a wave etched into their grave, even toddlers knew that. Hell, even _Gunther_, her brother-in-law, knew that. But that still did not stop her from thinking that the Grim Reaper purposely chose that design to further aggravate her. She knew that the townspeople thought that she was the reason Erik died, you didn't need to have the Genius trait to figure that out. She couldn't go out without being stared at or whispered about, and it infuriated her to her very core. She loved him, goddamn it! That was why she hardly ever interacted with others anymore, except for her dear sister Cornelia, of course.

Cornelia… she told her once, a long time ago, when she was dating Gunther, that if you mourned at a grave, a ghost would appear at night. Even as a child, she had scoffed at that. Why would spirits, who were stubborn and impossible to order around when they were alive, come back just because of a few tears shed? Now, she was even willing to go against her pride and believe, proof of how she would do anything, _anything_, to get Erik back.

She stood beside the grave, and cried, sobbing into her hands. For about three minutes, she let out everything; her frustration at all of Sunset Valley, her anger at the direction her life had taken, and her grief at having the chance of true happiness taken away so abruptly. Finally, in a very unladylike and low-class gesture, she wiped her nose on her hand and sighed. Seeing Marty Keaton jogging down the road and coming closer, Agnes quickly went inside. The last thing she needed was to have to meet someone who has a wife that works in Law Enforcement.

* * *

><p>She would never admit it to anyone, not even herself, but Agnes mourned at the grave four times that day. In between painting and fulfilling motives, she found herself walking autonomously towards his grave. Eventually, at around seven PM, she went to bed, exhausted from her inadequate sleep all the nights before. As usual, she woke up at three, without any reasonable explanation, and walked downstairs.<p>

Standing at the foyer of her house, she noticed a faint blue light coming from the windows. Turning, she saw a sight that made her heart beat fast and her head spin. Erik was standing in front of the mailbox, wearing the same old clothes he always wore… but he was different. The most obvious variation was that he was literally blue. He was blue from head to toe, and water was dripping off him, yet the pavement he stood over was completely dry. Then, there was his expression. He was staring at their home with an impartial, confused expression on his face… as if he didn't recognize it as home.

With slow, measured steps, Agnes walked out towards him, fearing that if she moved too fast, this ghost, or projection, or whatever this form of her husband was, would disappear. Finally noticing her, he smiled.

"Hello, I'm Erik. Erik Darling," he greeted politely. Agnes' breath caught in her throat. She felt hot tears sting her eyes. He didn't remember her.

The ghost frowned. "Is something wrong?"

She bit back an angry retort. "Nothing," she said, then forced a smile, "I'm Agnes Crumplebottom."

"Agnes…" the ghost had a distant expression, as though remembering something, but it disappeared quickly, "That's a nice name."

For two hours, Agnes stood outside her garden talking to the ghost. If her name could trigger some memory, no matter how faint, then that meant that his… data, for lack of a better word, was buried somewhere deep in his head. Maybe, just maybe, if she could dig it out, then everything could be as it was before. She could be happy again, safe in his arms.

And even if she couldn't, she could make him grow to love her again. Make new memories to compensate for the old, new promises to renew the forgotten. After all, love always found a way.

* * *

><p>OMG, I actually published this! I've wanted to write a fic on Agnes since I first played her…<p>

To any Outside Help fans reading this, I know it's been a long time, but I had end-of-the-year stuff and summer camp, so I couldn't write. I'll try to get the next chapter up soon!


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